


The New Neighbor

by miles_and_miles



Category: GAYLE (Web Series)
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, Gayle Episode 33: Trader Joe'd, New England, Seduction to the Dark Side, it sure is autumn 2020 huh, unfortunately for everyone i refuse to back down from a challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:56:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miles_and_miles/pseuds/miles_and_miles
Summary: Your recent move from the Bay Area to a New England suburb is rattling the skeletons in your closet, but at least your new neighbors seem interesting...
Relationships: Gayle Waters-Waters/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	1. Act One: Return to Massachusetts

Three Months Earlier

__ _ “Massachusetts? Are you kidding me?”  _

__ _ “I know it’s not ideal, but listen, (Y/N). It’s just the most reasonable option. The Bay Area is pricing us out.”  _

__ _ “You know I don’t want to go back to New England, Mike.” You’re furious.  _

__ _ “We’re going to move to a really nice neighborhood. You just wait. It’s going to be a great place for us to live, to work...maybe even to start a family.”  _

__ _ You silently stare into the distance. Poor Mike, with his California sensibilities and fondness for Trader Joe’s.  _

__ _ “Babe? Are you okay?” His eyebrows are crinkled in concern, but again he simply doesn’t understand...can’t comprehend that you aren’t the one he should be worried about.  _

_ “You don’t get it, Mike. You don’t know what it’s like out there.” _

_ *** _

“(Y/N), will you help me set up this bookshelf?” He’s struggling with a simple IKEA bookshelf, trying to lodge a bolt into what is clearly a nail crevice. You complete the task efficiently, while Mike stands by attempting to offer advice. 

“There,” you announce, knocking in the last nail. The bookshelf looks great - a light cedar. It compliments the kitchen table outstandingly. He doesn’t seem to notice, though. He’s too busy wiring a large flat-screen TV. 

You look out the window. A few snowflakes are starting to fall from a steely sky. Rubbing your hands together, you wish you hadn’t burned all of your winter coats and cashmere scarves on that fateful day five years ago…

The doorbell rings, shaking you out of your reverie. You open the door to find an extremely meek-looking man. He introduces himself and, in spite of yourself, you immediately forget his name. He wants to know if you and your husband want to come to dinner tomorrow night - “you know, to meet the neighbors.” 

“He’s not my husband,” you say. 

“We’re engaged,” chimes Mike. 

“We’d love to come over,” you say, as if by instinct. Next to you, Mike grins. 

  
“David seems nice.” says Mike from his side of the bed. 

“Who?” you ask. 

“David. That new neighbor who stopped by.”  _ Oh, so that was his name.  _

“Yeah. Sure.” 

“Honey, I know this is hard for you,” Mike says, voice sparkling like black ice with West Coast passive aggression, “but can you please try to support me here? I didn’t want to move any more than you did, okay? This transfer means I make a lot more money. I promise you, as soon as my contract is up, we’ll move to Santa Barbara. We just need to grin and bear it right now.” You’re glad it’s dark -- that way he doesn’t see you roll your eyes. You try for a second to craft a temperate response, but instead, indignant syllables sputter forth from your vocal cords. 

“But really, Mike? Massachusetts? You know how I feel about New England. You know what I went through deciding to move to the Bay Area. I thought you understood, but now I know you’re —you’re just another  _ native Californian _ .”

“Well, if that’s how you really feel.”

The unfamiliar room is immersed in silence. You don’t fall asleep for a long time. 

***

“Look, (Y/N)! It’s snowing!” Mike wakes you from a night of uneasy sleep. Indeed, flakes are swirling down from the wintry sky. 

“Hey, look, I’m sorry we fought last night,” you say. “It’s just a sore spot with me. I’m sure I’ll get over it.” 

“It’s okay. I know this is hard for you.” 

“You couldn’t have just taken a transfer to Florida or something, could you?” 

“No, babe, they were fresh out of tropical transfers.” Mike is in a cheery mood. 

He’s frisking around the house like a timeshare salesman at a law conference in Maui. You stretch and yawn. You feel...different. You haven’t felt this way since…

__ _ “(Y/N), what a beautiful table” says the president of the Homeowners' Association. “Did you make this centerpiece yourself?”  _

__ _ “Oh, thank you,” you say. “I did. Candlemaking can really be an art, you know.”  _

__ _ “I’d love to think I’d be as crafty as you if I were single,” exclaims Carol, your next-door neighbor. A backhanded compliment, but one you’re more than ready to counter.  _

__ _ “Actually, I’m seeing a wonderful man. He works for this new tech startup, a real entrepreneur type...maybe I should give Rick his number!” You let a warm smile slide over your face as Carol fidgets. Everyone knows that her husband, Rick, recently lost enough money to buy a house in the Poconos investing in a half-baked YouTube knockoff that went under when its founder abruptly went to jail for tax evasion.  _

__ _ “That’s wonderful,” exclaimed the HOA president’s husband, Jeff, oblivious to the tension as he enjoys a stalk of your famous baked asparagus... _

The memory takes you by storm, but you don’t find it as unsettling as you might have a few weeks ago. Now, here, it makes you feel...almost powerful. You’d committed to the bit. You’d followed it to the end, and now you were back in the game. An unholy smirk spreads over your face. 

“You know, Mike, I think we should bring something to this dinner tonight. Maybe oven-baked asparagus? You know, the recipe with truffle oil and parmesan?” 

“That sounds great, babe!” He’s obviously excited to get to know the neighbors, and you’re finding that you’re excited too. 

As soon as you feel the grin on your face, though, it melts away.  _ I’ve only been here for a week, and I’m already falling back into these toxic patterns _ , you think. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, remembering the many perky young Berkeley graduates who had lectured your yoga class on the importance of calmness and positivity. You get out of bed and stretch. You can be calm. You can be positive. What does it matter whether you’re in Massachusetts or in Berkeley? It’s not like you’re a different person. As soon as you’re dressed, Mike presses a cup of French Blend coffee into your hand. 

“While I’m at it, why don’t I make some cookies? Break in this new kitchen?” you say. _Calm and positive. Calm and positive. Calm and positive._  


“I’d love that, babe, but I’m pretty sure we don’t have flour...or sugar...actually, I’m not even convinced that we have milk.” Mike says. 

“Oh, no problem! Unless you’re gonna use the car, I can run to Trader Joe’s.”

“Is there a TJ’s around here?” Mike looks like someone just told him that he's being left a million-dollar inheritance by a long-lost uncle.  _ Those Californians and their Trader Joe’s _ , you think.  _ It’s endearing, really _ . 

“Yeah, I saw it when we ran to Home Depot. It’s just a few blocks away from Dunkin’ Donuts.” 

“Which Dunkin’?” Mike asks, but you’re already shrugging on your coat and grabbing the keys. 

“See ya, babe!” 

***

As you emerge from the warmth of your station wagon and walk towards the Trader Joe’s entrance, there’s a bite in the air you haven’t felt for years. It’s familiar and foreign all at once, and you’re almost relieved to duck into the brightly lit, colorful Trader Joe’s interior. You know the drill at TJ’s: you grab a basket and immediately hustle to the baking supplies. You’re careful not to betray any sign of confusion, knowing that you’d be at the employees’ mercy the moment such a signal issued forth from your Pilates-toned body. Moving with the semi-violent swiftness of a person who believes they have right-of-way on a sidewalk because they’re slightly out-of-control on roller skates, you grab some enriched wheat flour, eggs, milk, sugar, and three bottles of vanilla extract. You’re making your way towards the checkout counter when you see it: the unmistakable posture of a jolly Trader Joe’s staff member bearing down on a hapless New Englander. You know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of a Trader Joeing, and you can tell from the employee’s surfer hair and single diamond earring that he’s probably a West Coast native here for college. You square your shoulders and make your approach. 

“Excuse me? Excuse me, sir? I can’t find the, uh—the strawberries.” 

“Strawberries? In November? She’s a wild woman!” the employee jests to the public at large. You carefully keep a victorious smirk off your face: the diversion is a success! He not only points you over to the strawberries but walks you halfway there, gesticulating with gusto. When you say you’ve just arrived from the Bay Area, a grin a mile wide spreads across his face. “No way! I’m from Santa Cruz!” You knew it. You grab a box of strawberries and head back for the counter. After the chatty cashier scans your items, you notice the shell-shocked New Englander, still standing by the checkout. She’s...tall. She looks like she could probably knock you unconscious with her left ankle. As you walk by, to your great surprise, she speaks in your direction. 

“Who are you?” 

“I’m (Y/N). Being Trader Joe’d is roug-” she interrupts you. 

“Let’s get one thing straight, (Y/N), I  _ don’t  _ need you to fight my battles. You think I haven’t been Trader Joe’d before? I’ve been Trader Joe’d before and I’ll be Trader Joe’d again. You’re not a hero, and you look like a Gucci toothpick.” With that incredible pronouncement, the woman’s giraffe legs whisk her away. You’re absolutely dumbstruck, not only by her rudeness but by her inexplicable aura of power. You stare silently as she pulls out of the parking lot, your eyes transfixed on the horizon. 

“Can I help you?” asks another Trader Joe’s employee, clearly gearing up for a fresh Joeing. 

“No, I’m from the Bay Area,” you murmur distractedly. 

***

You whip your asparagus out of the oven with the confidence of a musicology major sliding a box of rare vinyl records out from under their dorm room bed in order to impress a soon-to-be one-night stand. 

“We have to leave!” calls Mike, as if you aren’t aware. 

“Just a second, Mike!” You toss the pampered fronds into your favorite serving dish and gently cover them with the floral-patterned lid. 

The two of you troop to the neighbors’ house. About two inches of snow has fallen, which isn’t much to you but seems to be quite a novelty for Mike. Holding the platter in your gloved hands, you wait while Mike rings the doorbell. There’s scuffling from inside, a little yelling, and then the unmistakable sound of feet moving towards the door. It swings open, and David greets you. In meek, unassuming tones, he thanks you for the asparagus and invites you into the house. It’s a lovely home, so clean that every surface practically emits light. It smells like lemon detergent and roasted kale, and there’s unidentifiable music playing softly on the periphery of your consciousness. 

“It’s our coed acapella ensemble,” responds David when you ask. You smile and inform him that you were part of a coed acapella ensemble during your undergrad. 

“I’m sure my wife will want to hear all about it,” says David. 

“Where is your wife? We brought a hostess gift,” says Mike, holding up a Tupperware box of your fresh-baked cookies. 

As we round the corner into the kitchen, the question is answered before David can respond. She’s putting the finishing touches on a luscious-looking ham. Something seems familiar about her…

“Gayle, the guests are here,” says David in a meek tone. The woman turns around, and you gasp aloud. 

It’s the woman from TJ’s. 

“Oh. It’s  _ you _ ,” she says disdainfully. 

“I see you and Gayle have already met,” says David. 

“This helpful neighbor tried to stop a petite Californian clerk from giving me the third-degree at Trader Joe’s today. Little did she know that I had that son of a bitch in my crosshairs. I could have taken him out with my left patella. Anyway, LET’S EAT.” 

***

“Yeah, we just came out here from the Bay Area,” says Mike. Inwardly, you facepalm. Of course, there’s no way for him to know anything about the deep hatred New Englanders feel for those who live in climates that don’t experience four distinct seasons, and obviously there’s no reason for him to understand that the Bay Area is to a Massachusetts suburbanite what Texas is to a Californian.

“Oh, that’s very interesting,” says David, but a shadow falls over the room. 

“The  _ Bay Area _ ,” repeats Gayle. She looks right at you. “So  _ that’s _ how you approached a Trader Joeing with such expertise.” 

“(Y/N) is actually from New England. She lived in New Hampshire when we first met,” pipes Mike. 

“Live free or die,” you comment weakly as Gayle’s eyes bore into you, her eyebrows practically above her hairline, her already tiny mouth becoming subatomic. 

“What made you move?” asks David.  _ Oh, no _ , you think.  _ Did you have to ask? _

“It’s a funny story,” says Mike. Your stomach plummets like a renegade elevator, and you think you can feel your pupils dilate so quickly and dramatically that it probably looks like you just hit a bong so hard you became invisible . “There was a little falling-out between (Y/N) and a neighbor, Carol, something about—what was it, honey? Tunglegrass?” 

“Tangleweed,” you utter through clenched teeth. You haven’t eaten a bite of your ham. 

“That’s right! The HOA president got this crazy idea that (Y/N) had planted these invasive vines in Carol’s lawn  _ on purpose _ . That was when we decided we had to get out of there. There was a great job waiting for me, so we took life by the horns!” Mike finishes his monologue. You breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. 

“You know, some species of birds are drawn to olive trees—” The conversation between Mike and David spirals soporifically into the realm of birding escapades.

Gayle raises an eyebrow to terrifying effect. “Tangleweed,” she says contemplatively, looking like she’s sizing you up. 

“It was just a rumor,” you say, trying to regain a molecule of dignity. Gayle doesn’t seem to hear you. 

“(Y/N), why don’t you try the  _ ham _ ,” she says, aggressively making eye contact across the table. With an awkward smile, you put a forkful of ham into your mouth. 

Thyme. Browned butter. Honey-smoked organic meat. It’s easily the best ham you’ve ever tasted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACT TWO COMING SOON :^)


	2. Act Two: The Reckoning

“Oh, God. I think I’ve forgotten how to talk to New Englanders,” you worry to Mike. You’re taking your makeup off, and you can’t get the dinner out of your head. _‘Live free or die’? Are you kidding me?_ “And I wish you wouldn’t have brought up that...that _thing_ with Carol. I really want to leave that in the past, Mike.” 

“I just thought it made for a good story.” 

“Maybe in California, babe. But people here take these things more seriously.” You wish you could even begin to make him understand, but sometimes it seemed like you were living in different worlds. 

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). And I think you talked to those scary New Englanders just fine.” You know you’re supposed to find it cute, but his vaguely patronizing tone of voice just makes you want to toss a fax machine out a window. 

“It’s fine,” you say. 

“It doesn’t seem fine.” Mike is just not giving this up! “I think you have a lot of buried feelings about living in New England again. It was a big part of your life, babe. A neighborhood like this created a lot of stress for you. That’s why you decided to come back to California with me in the first place.” 

“And yet you thought it would be a great idea to take this job.” 

“I—”

“I know, I know. It’s more practical. I get it. But did you ever think about _me_ , Mike? Did you ever think that maybe I went back to California with you because I didn’t like who I was when I was a New England suburbanite? I’ve spent the last five _years_ trying to learn how to let things go, how to destress, how to go with the flow instead of seeing opportunities for competition everywhere I look. But you just don’t care about that, do you?” 

You bite your lip the second you finish venting, wondering if you should have just kept your mouth shut. This is just another variant of the fight you’d had a million times, and you know you’re probably just making things worse by dredging it up again. To your surprise, though, Mike doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look offended or upset. Instead, he looks at you tenderly, with understanding in his eyes. 

“Oh, (Y/N). I had no idea what this really meant to you.”

“Because we barely talked about it, Michael.” 

“I wish you would have told me this sooner—”

“I WOULD have—” 

“—But it’s okay. (Y/N), this isn’t the end of the world. You’re not going to magically lose your cool just by being here. It’s only a year or two. That’s why we rented this house instead of buying. It’s not forever. And it might be good to face your demons.” Mike’s voice is surprisingly gentle, and you start feeling a little better. 

“I can understand why you’re freaked out, though. That neighbor lady was SCARY!” Mike chuckles, crawling into bed. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess she was,” you say. You wish you could stop thinking about that ham. Where _did_ she get that recipe? You half-fake a chuckle and climb into bed alongside Mike. 

“It’s gonna be okay. It really is,” says Mike. 

You hope he’s right. 

***

It’s been three weeks, and you’re starting to realize that you can’t avoid Gayle. She’s everywhere, from the neighborhood book club to the Home Owners' Association council (which you immediately joined, of course). Whenever she sees you, she makes piercing eye contact. It seems like you’re a particularly tricky stain on a linen tablecloth: she’s always calculating your destruction. But somehow, you don’t feel the way you felt about Carol. Instead, the way you feel would be best described as….grudging admiration. 

You’re sorting a few papers at the latest HOA meeting when she approaches you. You open your mouth to utter a greeting, but she beats you to the punch. 

“So. How did you do it?”

“What?” You’re genuinely confused. 

“How did you infest Carol’s lawn with tangleweed without taking yourself down with her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gayle,” you say, not making eye contact. 

“Oh, come on, (Y/N). Those innocent Bay Area eyes that say _I’ve smoked marijuana with Stevie Nicks_ don’t work on me. That asparagus told me everything I needed to know. How did you save your own lawn?”

“I didn’t destroy Carol’s lawn, and, frankly, Mike never should have brought it up.”

“Sure you didn’t,” says Gayle knowingly. Her gaze beams through your L.L.Bean fleece and into your very soul.

“Peppermint oil. I used peppermint oil on my own lawn. As soon as I noticed her infestation, I started immediately. Every gardener worth her salt knows that tangleweed can’t stand peppermint.” A long pause hangs in the air before you conclude:

“But I didn’t plant it. That’s just ridiculous.” 

Swept up in your feeble self-justification, you don’t even notice that Gayle is already gone. 

***

You return home to find a pair of men exclaiming enthusiastically over a row of freshly potted indoor herbs. Mike and Gayle’s husband, Dave, are in your kitchen, chattering about the health benefits of wheatgrass. Trowels lay discordantly on your once-gleaming marble countertop. There’s Home Depot Gardener’s Dream Nutrient-Enforced Potting Soil™ everywhere. Even, to your horror, on the new yellow paisley dish towels. You inhale sharply, willing yourself not to overreact. 

“Well, hello, David. Hi, Mike. Seems like you boys are up to some gardening,” you say, baring your teeth in what hopefully comes across as a grin. 

“Hey, (Y/N),” says Mike. “We’re just working on some indoor gardening. Having potted plants around will really bring some light into the place.”

“And home-grown herbs are far more flavorful than store-bought!” chimes Dave. 

“That sounds great,” you laboriously declare, “but don’t forget to clean all of this up! You know what they say, as soon as it’s inside it’s not soil, it’s dirt.” 

“Oh, come on,” says Mike cheerfully. “Remember when we went to that ‘Plants In The City’ seminar we attended over in Palo Alto? The Mini Cooper was covered in gravel after we took those potted succulents home, huh, babe?” 

You do remember. The “Plants In The City” workshop feels like it could have happened in another lifetime. You remember the leathery smell of the Mini Cooper punctuated by earthy potting soil, laughing at the misshapen grouping of succulents Mike created compared to your tasteful arrangement, driving over the Golden Gate Bridge on the 101 as the sun sank into a serene ocean. Had you even looked over to the person seated next to you in the workshop to establish that your succulent was aesthetically dominant? No, you don’t think so. Was that really your life? You’re stunned to find that you...you don’t miss it. 

“Babe?” says Mike, staring. You must be zoning out. 

“Oh, sorry. Lots going on with the HOA!” In fact, there’s barely anything going on with the HOA. Dave looks up at you with slightly raised eyebrows: he knows that the latest significant HOA issue - that disgracefully ugly tree - was cleared up a few days ago. You don’t meet his gaze. 

“Yeah, Dave, I think you’d really love ‘Plants In The City’. Urban gardening seems a little hipster at first, but it’s a great way to bring the outdoors into an indoor city setting. You know….”

The conversation fades as you migrate towards the bedroom, where you keep your arsenal of Home and Garden™ magazines. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: leggings and boots, snow-dampened hair, soft but resilient L.L. Bean fabric. 

“(Y/N!)” It’s Mike. “Gayle’s on the phone for you!” 

“What?” You say aloud. You hadn’t even heard the phone ring. 

“Come get the phone!” 

“Oh...okay?” 

Gayle’s already mid-sentence when you grab the receiver. 

“--Need to talk. Leave those chodes to their fertilizer-enhanced male bonding and come over here.” 

“Excuse me?”

“JUST DO IT,” says Gayle, and the line goes dead. 

***

“What is this about, Gayle?” you ask. You’re standing in her kitchen, which smells so strongly of Pine-Sol that you feel a little light-headed. 

“It’s BONNIE,” she says. Immediately, you understand. The tone of voice, the tension, the name. Bonnie is her Carol. 

“What’s going on?” you ask casually, as if the thought of involving yourself in a neighborhood feud isn’t making your recently manicured palms tingle. 

“I’m going to cut to the chase here. BONNIE is building a GREENHOUSE. She’s going to have TULIPS ALL YEAR LONG. She’s gonna have BEGONIAS. She’s gonna have ENGLISH TEA ROSES.” 

“Okay…” you say. 

“Now, since I put in the POND last July, I don’t have room for a competing greenhouse. You know what this means?” 

“You need to destroy her greenhouse?” you guess tentatively. 

“OBVIOUSLY.”

Your palms are sweating inside your fleece-lined pockets, and you take a deep breath. _In through the nose, out through the mouth_. You know this isn’t right. You also know that the second a plan emerges your instinct to destroy will be too strong. You’ve _got_ to dissuade her from this bloody course of action...if only for your own salvation. 

“Is that really the best solution?” you ask. “Destroying somebody’s property...it might just make matters worse. Besides, these feuds are...they’re stupid. I’ve been there, and it’s not worth it.” 

“Oh, I see what’s going on with you.” Gayle stares you down. “You’re in DENIAL!”

“What?” You hardly recognize the meek, shaken voice that issues forth from your lips. 

“I’ll tell you what, (Y/N). That living Patagonia ad you’ve got warming your lizard toes--”

“Mike?”

“Duh, Mike. He doesn’t want you to be who you can be. He knows he can’t handle you at full power.”

“You don’t know anything about my fiance,” you say, immediately defensive. 

“I don’t? I don’t know that he’s from Santa Cruz? I don’t know that he’s sexually attracted to the GPS voice?” 

You freeze, feeling like an ice cube is sliding down your throat. Why are your cheeks so hot?

“How do you know about the GPS voice?” You understand that the question is a mistake the moment it escapes your lips. 

“Because I went to women’s college and majored in women’s studies and minored in women’s studies. I don’t even know your tall glass of cashew milk. I read it all on your face.” 

You’re disoriented, thrown off your game. _How does she know so much?_ It doesn’t matter; it’s too late. With every second you remain silent, your cul-de-sac cred diminishes exponentially. The world around you seems to blur, frothing like the forty-foot waves that you’d seen crashing against the rocky Sausalito coastline. Only one thing is steady: the gangly woman whose steely gaze seems to impale you like a dagger. 

You cannot rebut her argument...nor can you concede. You can feel your heartbeat in your barre workout-sculpted buttcheeks. 

Not even bothering to make an excuse, you turn around and leave. 

***

_That night, you dream of California._

_You’re in your old apartment in Berkeley, where the tree swaying outside of your wide window never sheds its leaves. Even now, in the dead of winter, leaves boil forth like demons birthed from crusty bark. Beyond that, beyond the rooftops, swirls a bitter cerulean sea. The smell of the vegan bakery across the street wafts up to you, non-butter and non-eggs and blueberries and yeast._

_There is nothing to worry about here. There is nobody to compete with._

_There is only you, the sea, and the ever-living trees._

_But something is wrong. The fridge door is hanging open._ Oh, fuck, _you think_ , the yogurt. 

Oh, fuck, the yogurt. 

Oh, fuck, the yogurt. 

Oh, fuck, the-- 

_You are looking into the fridge._

_There is no yogurt. There are no shelves, there are no leftovers from the crock-pot minestrone you whipped up last Tuesday._

_Instead, they reach out for you, they crawl up to you unseeing and unthinking like sunflowers turning their heads to the light. Vines...monstrous, spiraling tangleweed vines._

_You feel no remorse._

_You feel only the euphoria of victory._

***

“(Y/N)! (Y/N), wake up!” 

Mike’s voice startles you awake, and your eyes fly open. You’re not in bed...instead, you’re kneeling on the kitchen’s cold tile floor. Before you, the refrigerator is open. Your hands are buried deep in a head of iceberg lettuce. Its carnage scatters the floor around you like oak branches downed in a windstorm. 

You are not surprised. 

Mike is, though. He’s squatting next to you like a theatre professor trying to build an IKEA bookshelf. 

“(Y/N)...” he says. The pity in his voice makes your skin crawl. He looks at you like you, not the head of lettuce, are torn asunder. 

Something else squirms in his gaze, though...a flicker of fear which, despite his best efforts, flinches back from you. 

“I must have been sleepwalking,” you say. 

He sighs. “This isn’t good for you, (Y/N),” Mike says. “It isn’t good for _us_.”

“Mike, honey...” you say. “I was just having a stupid dream.” 

“I can already see what this place is doing to you.” Has his California drawl always been this noticeable, or is it just the affected sadness pushing his voice into slow-mo? “And it’s...it’s bringing my vibrations down.” 

“ _What_?” 

“Babe, you know what I’m talking about. I know what’s going on between you and Gayle.” 

“Well, I don’t, so would you please enlighten me?” Mid-question, your voice slides from California passive-aggression to Massachusetts outright aggression. 

“When she’s around, you act the way you used to act around Carol.”

“Gayle is nothing like Carol,” you immediately spit back. “Carol was a garden gnome animated by a cruel wizard and forced to dance a suburban two-step. Gayle is...Gayle is something else. She’s...authoritative. She’s evil. She’s totally unhinged. She _deserves_ to be the she-king of this neighborhood.” 

You don’t realize how loudly you’re speaking until overwhelming silence slams down like a guillotine and your voice is left reverberating around the kitchen. 

“I saw you deliberately cut off some woman with your cart at the grocery store,” Mike says, rubbing his forehead. 

“She was angling for the last box of Kashi GoLean,” you say. _Obviously_. 

He’s silent for a long time. 

“I love you, (Y/N). You know that,” Mike finally says. “But I don’t like this side of you.” 

He stands up, takes a few steps towards your bedroom, then looks back at you and sighs. Your freezing hands lay inert, covered in lettuce innards. 

“You coming?” he asks. 

You wipe lettuce innards from your shaking hands onto your Coldwater Creek pajama pants and follow him. 

***

You do not go back to sleep that night. 

_I don’t like this side of you._ But what if this _is_ you? What if the version of yourself you became in Berkeley was shaped to suit Mike’s desires, Mike’s needs? 

_He doesn’t want you to be who you can be. He knows he can’t handle you at full power._

Gayle was right about everything else. Now it seems like she was right about this, too. 

_T_ _here was a little falling-out between (Y/N) and a neighbor..._ he’s never taken you seriously. He’s always looked down his nose at you, pitied you...and you’ve become the person he needed to protect. He wants you to be cool, calm, with a clear direction in life...like the GPS voice. 

But you are not the GPS voice. You can see that now. 

You can no longer deny what you are. 

You get out of bed. 

***

It doesn’t take long. First, a swing by Whole Foods, where you fortify yourself by taking so many immune-boosting spirulina lemon health shots that you’re capable of speedwalking at 75 miles per hour like an out-of-control sailboat. 

Then, the local botanical garden. You don’t even remember sneaking in, but you know that it happened, because your hands are covered in dirt and the cuttings are buckled in in the passenger seat. 

Then, finally, your last stop. 

You pull your Prius into Gayle’s driveway, tires screeching, and, before you can hesitate, knock furiously at the door. 

Just like you expected, she was still awake -- probably keeping watch over her couscous chest. 

“I have it,” you say. She takes one look at your potting soil-spattered garments and understands. “Let’s end that greenhouse.”

***

Gayle kicks the door to Bonnie’s greenhouse open with one of her lethal Gumby legs. 

“Gimme the tangleweed,” she whisper-yells urgently to you. You pass her the clippings immediately, and she buries them carefully amidst Bonnie’s pampered tomatoes and fresh year-round flowers. 

You are not part of this feud, but wicked mirth rises within you as the invasive seedlings nestle deep into carefully fertilized dirt. 

“I knew you were more than an upright surfboard,” says Gayle, looking at you out of the corner of her eye. 

Is that a flicker of genuine comradeship in her face? 

_No_ , you realize as she grabs you by your fleece, _it’s something more_. 

And then the two of you are lezzing out like a couple of fair-trade soy milk promoters at a Fiona Apple concert, knocking terra cotta pots and garden spades onto the ground as you bodily annihilate both each other and the greenhouse. Eddie Bauer merchandise flies. Feathers are also flying -- clearly someone’s down coat was caught in the crossfire. There’s quinoa everywhere and no explanation for where it came from. 

_Sorry, Mike_ , you think. _I just wasn’t made for the Bay Area._

***

Northbread, Massachusetts does not know peace tonight. 

Northbread, Massachusetts will never know peace again. 

As a team, you and Gayle Waters-Waters are unstoppable. You will sabotage any lawn maintenance project, one-up any achievement, outgroom any bichon. You know that one day, when everyone else has been destroyed, you will be forced to turn against one another. You know that, when you inevitably become enemies, the carnage will be so grievous in scope that it will physically reroute the Charles River. 

But today is not that day. 

Today, you rule with a united iron fist, and the greater Boston area will quake in the wake of your might. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR READING ;)


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